


Nobody Wants to Hear You Sing About Tragedy

by breezyArtii2an



Series: there's room for one more troubled soul [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, The Youngblood Chronicles (Music Video)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Read This For the Relationships, Epic Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Maybe - Freeform, Multi, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pete-centric, References to Song Lyrics, Young Blood Chronicles AU, did I mention lots of violence and gore because this is the youngblood chronicles, maybe oc/oc smut later?, really a clusterfuck of emotion at one point but we'll get to that later, we just don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:24:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breezyArtii2an/pseuds/breezyArtii2an
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Mighty Fall, Pete was alone.  Alone, alone, alone.  He couldn’t even be alone together with his best friends, because they were God knows where and Pete didn’t know which was up, let alone where the road was.  He prayed—and he doesn’t pray much—that someone, anyone, out there was watching them and was going to send an angel or something to them… even if rock ‘n roll was once called the music of the devil.</p><p>            He rolled his eyes at lyrics he’d once thought clever.</p><p>            I thought of angels, choking on their halos—</p><p>What irony—you need an angel, and they probably weren’t listening because he talked shit about them in one of his—their—songs.  Go figure.  He would have laughed bitterly, but his mouth still tasted like blood and his throat felt like Death Valley in the middle of summertime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Begins after the music video for The Mighty Fall. Will update sporadically.  
> You should probably watch the videos before reading this. Although... if you have a weak stomach for gore and violence, I highly recommend turning back while you still can. This fic will have strong allusions or explicit references to aforementioned gore and violence... so... yeah...

After the Mighty Fall, Pete was alone. Alone, alone, alone. He couldn’t even be alone together with his best friends, because they were God knows where and Pete didn’t know which was up, let alone where the road was. He prayed—and he doesn’t pray much—that someone, anyone, out there was watching them and was going to send an angel or something to them… even if rock ‘n roll was once called the music of the devil.

He rolled his eyes at lyrics he’d once thought clever.

_I thought of angels, choking on their halos—_

What irony—you need an angel, and they probably weren’t listening because he talked shit about them in one of his—their—songs. Go figure. He would have laughed bitterly, but his mouth still tasted like blood and his throat felt like Death Valley in the middle of summertime.

He just kept walking, though. He had no choice. No choice whatsoever. If he stayed in one place, they might find him, might make him do horrible things again. He shuddered at the very thought, his stomach churning and his vision swimming at the memory of what had happened at a dinner table with bound occupants and captors with a sick, sick sense of humor. He’d said once he’d wished he had Patrick’s guts. Now, he supposed, he kind of did, in such a twisted way he’d throw up again if he had anything left in his stomach.

How long had it been since he’d tried to bust them out of that damn torture chamber? Days? Hours? It felt like the longest year of his life, and it had started with a stupid idea, such a stupid, stupid idea—

_What if we saved rock and roll?_

_I don’t know, Pete. That’s a dangerous road._

_No, we’ve gotta! We’ve gotta tell those sons-a-bitches, we’ve gotta challenge their pop empire—we’ve gotta ask ‘em if that’s the best they got! We’ve gotta, Trick!_

_Okay, Pete. Okay._

And Pete cursed himself like he never had before (and he had, he had so much in his life, yet this was so different, this was so much more painful to know that if he’d never uttered that thought then Patrick would still have a hand and Sean would still be alive and oh God oh God what if they have Bronxie too?) because that was all he could do. He was helpless and wounded and starved and half-delirious, half-crazed, and he was all alone.

He hadn’t realized he’d passed out until he opened his eyes and it was dark.

He tensed.  He wasn't in that goddamn forest anymore.  No, no no. They must have somehow gotten him again, must have sent him back to that horrible place, must have made plans for him now that he’s proved that he wouldn’t just take their shit lying down. He began to panic then, fear setting in as fast as his beating heart and heaving lungs. He shut his eyes, trying to calm himself, trying to tell himself that it was all just a horrible nightmare, even as his stomach churned again and his body ached with the abuse it had faced the past few days. He tried to pretend that things were on some semblance of normalcy, just to keep himself from giving up, from throwing away all the reasons he’d fought to protect the fall of his--their--legacy.

The door opened. He heard light, almost tentative footsteps—not the clicking of stiletto heels on hard flooring, a sound he’d come accustomed to in dark settings such as this. He tried to hold his breath, to be silent, unnoticed, to no avail.  He shrank when he heard the click of a light switch and the accompanying brightness on his lids.

He felt her—it had to be a girl, no man stepped that lightly—approach him, and stop just shy of his side. She knelt, and he could feel her eyes on him. He tensed again, preparing himself for a blow that never came.

Her fingers were pressed gently to his forehead, smoothing back his hair. He felt rough wetness from what he assumed to be a towel, rubbing his face clean of dirt. The longer he waited, the less he was convinced he was in immediate danger. Who hummed Hum Hallelujah under their breath if they despised Fall Out Boy and what they represented? So he wet his lips, and opened his eyes.  He blinked twice, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting of a lamp on a table across the room.

She felt his body change, relax a little, and she met his eyes. She smiled gently, warmly, scooting back to respectfully give him room. In the dim lighting, he could just barely make her out. She was about his height, he would guess, curvy and broad shouldered with a slender neck and a wide face. Her caramel skin was well complimented by the yellow light of the room, her dark eyes tired, but well-intentioned. What struck him the most, was the contradiction of youth and age in her face. She was young, very young, from what he could tell. But something in the way her shoulders slumped, in the way her eyes regarded him, told him that she had seem far too much. Her maturity made her a woman, not just a girl. Of course, what did he know? He was still half-delirious. But as she kept mumbling that song, he could have sworn that she was the angel he had prayed for.

_Hum hallelujah, just off the key of reason_

_I thought I loved you, but it’s just how you looked in the light._

Pete tried to sit up, but his body ached in protest.

“Don’t force it.” She said, her voice a velvet alto. She gently pushed him back to rest upon what he now saw as the headboard of a cot. He watched her as she rested some pillows against his back, then sat back on her heels to ask him, “How’s that?” He simply nodded his approval, and she smiled that same close-lipped smile and nodded back.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” She apologized, wringing the towel she’d been wiping him with in a bowl that had since turned murky. She dipped the towel in another bowl, light and soapy and strangely clean. He hadn’t thought he’d smell soap again.

He shrugged in reply, with much difficulty. “I’ve been up for some time.” He coughed, surprised at the raspiness of his voice. When had been the last time he’d spoken, not screamed in agony or desperation? He touched a hand to his throat.

The young woman offered him a bottle of water. He stared suspiciously at it.

“It’s sealed.” She said, setting it in his hands. “You’ve been through hell, I know. God knows I know. But we’ve got some shit here that you’re really gonna need if you want to see your bandmates again.”

She had spoken while he opened the bottle, and, satisfied by the click of the unsealing plastic, took one swig, then gulped down the rest of the bottle, cold and soothing on his burning throat. When he set the bottle down, he looked at her as guardedly as he could in his current state.

“How do you know about them?”

She simply smiled that same damn smile again.  He wasn't sure if he was reassured or not.

“My name is Josephine, Mr. Wentz. I am part of a band named Dastardly Good Looks, and we were, like you, trying to save rock and roll.  After you guys left the scene, we were trying to get out there, pretty much thought ourselves goddamn heroes.  But we had to get the hell out of dodge, though, some time before you guys came back on the scene, and we made this base here in this craptacular motel.  We figured, since we can’t do shit with a huge-ass bounty on our heads, we may as well have a place where we can get strays like you, feed them, give 'em a place to rest, and set them back in the world in the right direction.” She gestured to the hoodie. It had what he supposed to be her band’s logo, two halves of a heart and a slash with blood droplets layered under distressed lettering of DGL. “You probably don’t remember us. It’s been a goddamn long time since you signed us onto your label.”

Pete just stared at her, squinting in concentration.  He wet his lips again, and upon the ghost of a memory, asked, “It was 2011, spring time, and you guys had that awesome song about knocking shit over?” She just nodded, chuckling that he had remembered.

With the dim light of memories beginning to cast shadows in his head, he found himself asking, “How old are you?” She grinned. He felt the dread pooling in his stomach at that grin, the grin that held no humor, just defiance and bitterness, yet suited her just as fine as a well tailored dress.

“I’m seventeen.” She said, and he sighed heavily. How many more had been dragged into this mess he’d started?  The youthful roundness of her face made his heart hurt, made him think of a babyfaced Patrick in argyle and knee socks, himself in sweatpants and a wifebeater, a spur-of-the-moment decision that decided their way to fame—he swallowed hard, trying to push those memories away, to deal with them another day.  For now, he had to focus on the present, if he ever wants to see Trick again.  He sucked in a breath, bracing himself.  She didn’t prompt him, she only sat there, waiting patiently for him to reply.

“Where are my bandmates?” He finally asked, fearing the answer. “Where are Patrick, Joe, and Andy?”  He looked up at her, and the hesitation in her eyes sent a jolt of cold through him.  He swallowed hard.

“Where are Patrick Stump, Joe Trohman, and Andy Hurley?” He asked again, his voice breaking and betraying the panic rising in his chest.

The girl avoided his eyes.  She licked her lips, shifting uncomfortably under Pete’s stare.  Finally, she took a deep breath, then gave him that same goddamn smile again.

“I’ll tell you in the morning, okay?  You need to get some rest.”  She told him in a soothing tone.  It felt sickly sweet against the taste of bile in his throat. 

“I need to know now.” His voice was quiet but firm, a mere whisper.  His eyes felt heavy, but with the terror and apprehension for the fate of his best friends, he could not in good conscience sleep without knowing if they were alive and well.

The growing silence had his heart in his throat.  Pete stiffened and his head dropped.  They must be dead, then, they must be…

“They’re not dead.”  Jo placed a hand on his shoulder.  “But they’re in danger.  We’re looking for them, okay?  We’re looking for them.  And we’re going to find them, like we found you.”  She tried to reassure him, but Pete shook her off.

“Let me look for them.  Let me look for them with you.”  Pete insisted, trying to get out of bed.

“No, no Pete.  You’re not strong enough right now.”  She placed a hand on his chest, effectively holding him back.

“Let me go!”  Pete shoved her away and swung his legs to the floor.  He stood up, on shaky legs.  He took a step.

“Fuck.”

Pete was finding he was getting tired of his face meeting the ground.  Fuck gravity.  Fuck his weak body.  Fuck 2Chainz.  Fuck those bitches.  And most of all, fuck him.  He wouldn’t be in this mess if not for his own dumb idea.  He just…

“There, there, Pete…” He didn’t fight as she lifted him by the arms and sat him back on his bed.  She patted his leg.  “You can help them by just getting yourself back to one hundred percent, okay?  You look like shit.”

He slumped, and she resumed cleaning his face and his chest and arms, and he didn’t even say a word.  He was out of energy already.  Whatever those bitches had done to him in that goddamn asylum of hell, his body felt like absolute shit, and it seemed that he needed a few days to completely detox.

He hoped it wasn’t just for them to retox him later.

She urged him to lay back down again with that sweet tone, and, completely sapped of whatever strength he’d had earlier, he let her tuck him in.  He fell asleep again once she’d left him, the multiple blankets she wrapped him in wreathing him in a pleasant and faintly flowery scent.  The curtains were drawn, but lights had been left on as he asked. (“I’m not scared of the dark,” he’d said, even though she hadn’t even claimed or assumed such, “I’m just scared of what happens inside it.” She had told him that was fair and simply left the lights on.)

Josephine looked back at him, sleeping peacefully for perhaps the first time in a long time, his breath even, his face smooth. His exhaustion must have trumped his insomnia in this case, but she left the door cracked so when he came to awareness when he woke, he wouldn’t feel trapped.  The disorientation of lingering dreams could upset him, and Jo was worried that he may panic at the slightest trigger, after the trauma he had faced.

She remembered the carnage after the Mighty Fall, and the tears in Angel’s eyes as they buried Sean, (they couldn’t just leave the guy in the forest like that, he deserved a proper, if not modest, send-off) and the grim expressions on their faces when Will and Noah informed her they couldn’t find Stump, Trohman, or Hurley. How Pete had survived three days before they’d found him, she didn’t know. It was a miracle she’d even found him at all, gathering fire wood as she had been.

It’d been a cold night, after all.  Angel was always cold easily, and they had that big fireplace in the lobby, so she figured, hey, it’s a pretty good night for a fire.  So she went to get some extra wood from the nearby forest.  It was safe now, at least, relatively; there hadn’t been any vans pulling up and there hadn’t been any kids on bikes, so she figured, if she had her blade, she’d be okay if she went out. 

And then she saw him, lying there in a puddle of vomit and blood.  She’d thought he was dead, but he’d coughed and rolled over.  And she’d run, she ran faster than she had in a while, back to the Roadhouse and she screamed at Clay to get his ass outside—and Noah and Angel had come back from grocery shopping when they’d brought Pete home.  They’d combed the forest for hours for others, but they’d only found Sean, laying there, and he’d smiled at them, gasped his last, and then he was just gone, staring sightlessly into the sky.  Angel had taken that the hardest between the four of them.  They’d been friends, Angel and Sean, and they’d jammed together once or twice in the Old Days.  He’d been worried about his friend lately, because of the Takeover.  She had hugged him after they’d buried Sean and he’d just cried silently into her shoulder, not a word forming enough to fall from his lips.  These days it wasn’t too shameful to let out the feelings of grief and anger over the others.  You just didn’t know if you could let them out later, so it was best to deal with those feelings as they came. 

Pete had been in a bad way.  Those drugs, whatever they’d been, had done a number on him.  He’d been shaking, convulsing the entire time.  She had made the sign of the cross when he'd first looked at her with those wild, pained eyes. She wasn't exactly religious, but it felt like it would take God's grace to help him. Every time they tried to get close, he lashed out at them and screamed for about an hour or two, and then, perhaps exhausted by his struggling he’d finally, finally fallen quiet. 

(She supposed it wasn’t as bad as the time they’d found Brendon Urie, babbling and screaming for them to let him go, let him go—they’d sent him to a mental hospital, begrudgingly. There were some wounds that they couldn’t heal.

Then there was the time they’d seen Hayley Williams laugh at Courtney Love, then slit her own throat rather than be taken alive. It had been a particularly hard-broiled way to go, Jo had to give her that—but she was still bitter that they had been moments too late to save her.

And there was Gabe, and Travie, and Vicky, Mikey, and Frank, and Bob, and Gerard—so many, so many, they’d seen them all fall, or maimed, or hurt, they’d seen them all laugh in the face of death, they’d seen them all go mad, they’d seen them all in the dark and quiet, silence on their lips and a cold somberness in their eyes, and more often than that they’d seen these underscored by 2Chainz with his blow torch and the two bitches in leather, they’d seen it all.

They—DGL, that is, because they were the only ones around lately--generally saved who they could. But most of the time, they were just too late.)

So that was why they were so desperate to find the other members of Fall Out Boy, time was running out, time was never on their side. And then there was Patrick Stump, her idol turned enemy, an angel choking on his own blood now, if Sean's dying gasps had been anything to go by. Stump could be dangerous, she’d seen those yellow eyes Sean had described--they'd flashed at her before, when one of the Ways had laughed and slashed at her in his insanity, a nightmare she still had—

Pete, though. Pete was alive. Pete was alive, with thankfully not-yellow eyes.

Pete Wentz, one of her heroes, alive but barely so, alive, and with him, her hope in the future didn’t feel quite so naïve.

She leaned against the wall of the hallway, bowls still in her hand, towel over her shoulder. Josie wondered, briefly, how it was possible for her and her boys to have survived so long when so many have failed.

“Hey, Josie. Need help with that?”

She looked at the scrawny boy, Noah, his blond roots showing through black-dyed hair. His hooked nose was bloodied and swollen—she’d have to ask about that later. He was just a year her senior, and he was her best friend in the world.  Noah wasn't very tall, only 5'8" when Clay and Angel towered at over 6 feet each, give or take a few inches.  Yet he was still a good bit taller than Jo, and his lanky frame gave him the illusion of being much taller. 

“Yeah. Take this.” She handed him a bowl, and had him follow her into the bathroom. He stood at the other side of the sink, helping her scrub Wentz’s (and probably others’, too, though Jo tried not to think about that) blood from the bowls and towel. She took a moment to eye him up and down. He returned the look with a raised brow.

“What?” He prompted, and Josie immediately turned her eyes away.

“I was just wondering,” she began, her eyes settling on that bloody nose of his, “if you have anything Pete could wear? His old clothes are filthy, I don’t want to put him in those now that I’ve finally got him all cleaned up.  It’s too cold for him to just be going around in his boxers.”

Noah paused, setting the wet towel on the rack. “Well, I think I can scrounge up a thing a two. You might have better luck with Angel’s clothes though.”  His voice was sounding oddly nasally, perhaps from the state of his nose.

Josie shook her head. “No, Angel’s too tall. He’ll look like a little kid.  Pete’s like, my height, but I don’t think he’d appreciate knit sweater dresses.”

He raised one studded brow at her, amusement in his azure eyes. “Baby girl, I don’t think he’ll much care, so long as he’s not naked.  He might be a kinky fucker, might get a kick out of wearing your cute lacy things.  Besides, your clothes smell much nicer, anyway.”

“I guess so,” She chuckled.  (Noah considered it a victory to see her smile.  His best friend looked much prettier when she smiled.) Jo continued, saying, “But you’re closer in build and height to him.” She wiped her wet hands on her pant legs.

“All right, well, I guess I’ll head down to my room and check what I can spare.  If not, I can just swing on down to the nearest Walmart.”  Hurriedly, Noah took a step towards the door, but Jo pulled him back.

“Ah, ah, ah.  You’re not going anywhere.  Sit down on that toilet now. Let me look at that nose.”

He groaned, but acquiesced and sat, bracing himself for the upcoming session of mothering from his friend. “Ugh, Jo, it’s no big deal... Angel just, like, jumped, when something sparked, and he accidentally elbowed me in the face when we were fixing the circuit breaker...” he began, but at her admonishing look, allowed her gentle hands nurse his swollen nose.

“Well, it’s not broken,” She told him, and for that, Noah was grateful.  “But, you’re not getting out of me nursing you.  Someone needs to look after you, you reckless little shit.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?  Who went out to get firewood, alone?”  He shot back with a mumble, but smiled anyway.  They were all each other had, Jo and Clay and Noah and Angel, always together, always supporting one another, and they had to take care of each other. No one else would, not when they were outcasts, the scum of the society.

 

They had met in high school. DGL, that is. Noah’s best friends in the world were Clayton, now twenty, and Angelis, now twenty-three, and he’d met them both when he was just fourteen. Clay had been a senior back then, and Angel had just graduated. They’d been there for him when Noah's mom had begun to be suspicious of the thin lines that kept appearing on his forearms, the times when Noah's eyes were bruised and not just because of the homophobic assholes at Cooperstown High. Noah, in turn, had been there when Clay had gone through a sexuality crisis, and they'd both supported Angelis during his rocky start with Luci (it had been a huge, huge mess, considering that, trusted friend of theirs though Luci may be, she was still Clayton's ex and a former fling of Josie's to boot, and really, any more thoughts that the band had to spare on that time are more headaches than they're worth) and even in the worst of times, they had been there when Josie needed to call someone late at night because she’d had that nightmare again, that one with the sand and the abandonment and the blood.

They weren’t just bandmates. They were four parts of a whole.

It had been Noah’s dream come true when Pete Wentz himself had come on out to Cooperstown, Michigan and signed them onto his label. He'd been looking for something new. Something different, that apparently he'd found in Dastardly Good Looks. They'd lived the dream for a little while, basked in their skyrocket to fame thanks to one of the big men in the game--they had toured and they had made albums and they had been, in their own right, rising stars.

And then the Takeover happened.

It hadn’t been sudden. It hadn’t even been unexpected. It was just, suddenly there were men in sunglasses stalking them and a blond woman in a brown leather jacket and a predator’s grin, and one night suddenly Jo was in the back of an unmarked black van and they’d had to fight tooth and nail to get her back. They tried to fight them, they really did—but it had only lost Noah a kidney and given them all chronic nightmares. So they set up here, in this motel they pridefully called Roadhouse 27, created specifically as a shelter for lost souls like their own. (They still played, in the dead of night, in the dark, in the depths of the basement, lighting hope in the hearts of their listeners, just for a few minutes, just until they can all sleep again. There is no adoring screaming, no rush of pride, just peace when the adrenaline fades, satisfaction that they lived another day.)

And every day, someone they had known or admired in the business died or was turned because they were too fucking late to do a damn thing. (They knew, they just fucking knew that somewhere out there Courtney Love was laughing her ass off at their attempts, and 2Chainz’s smug grin made him see red every damn time.)

And then the Mighty Fall had happened, and Patrick Stump had apparently turned. The shit had hit the fan, and there was almost no reason left for anyone, least of all, them, to have any hope.

Almost.

There was Wentz, and with Wentz, there was also the promise of saving Trohman and Hurley, and with Trohman and Hurley, there was the hope that maybe together, they all stood a chance in this world so cruel and against them, those who still believed. Josie looked at Noah and Noah looked back at her--they lingered there, in front of the vacant room where Pete was resting, and when brown eyes met blue, they nodded at each other. "I still have hope." Josie whispered. "Me too. You reckon we should call the others?" Noah asked. The gravity of what they'd done was not lost on him, and nor did he think it was on his companion. There was silence between them as she considered his question, and probably, their shared past few years. Someone else had once rested from his injuries in this room, and sometimes his absence lingered in a dull ache. "Only if he chooses to keep fighting," she replied finally, "because this is still a war. Even if we believe in them, we shouldn't give anyone any false hope that a few idiots can actually save rock and roll." Noah laughed at that, then he and Josie walked off to leave Wentz in peace. If this--whatever this was--would be going in the direction Josie seemed to think it would, Pete Wentz would need all the rest he could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs Referenced:  
> Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes (Title; "detox just to retox him later")  
> Just One Yesterday ("I thought of angels...")  
> Alone Together ("He couldn't even be alone together with this best friends")  
> Death Valley (obscurely, by the reference to the actual Death Valley)  
> The Mighty Fall (by the Chapter Title; mentioned as an actual event)  
> Hum Hallelujah (mentioned)  
> This Is Gospel ("they’d found Brendon Urie, babbling and screaming for them to let him go, let him go...")  
> Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown On A Bad Bet ("Cooperstown, Michigan")  
> "The Take Over, the Break's Over" (References the "Takeover" as an event)


	2. Is This More Than You Bargained For Yet, Pete?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete finds out a little about just who has taken him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd posted this chapter when I wrote about two months ago. I'm so sorry. /).(\  
> Enjoy! This chapter is essentially The Chapter Where Jo Talks To Pete, which, I know is hella boring, but it's got some world-building so I hope that's interesting at least! UwU

          He wasn’t surprised to wake up and find out that the bloodcurdling scream he had heard came from his own throat. He was panting, rubbing his neck. He’d felt the cord wrapped so tightly around his neck and in the flickering light of the hospital room, Patrick’s eyes gleamed yellow and unfocused, like some rabid animal. He gasped, and the door slammed open accompanied by running footsteps, and everything sounded underwater, everything was blurring around the edges, and he screamed, he screamed, but nothing came out except a sick gurgling because there was a _fucking rope_ around his neck—

          But the yellow-eyed Patrick, the Patrick that sent his instincts screaming _wrong, all wrong, not Trick, not Trick,_ that terrifying Patrick his mind had conjured up wasn’t there, and he definitely wasn’t dying (he checked) and he definitely wasn’t choking, and he most certainly was in a (compared to his past experiences, in years spent on tour) very clean motel room, not a long-abandoned hospital room. It was just a dream, he told himself. He was just stressed out, he guessed. Or maybe it was the aftershocks of whatever _they_ had him dosed up on. It was all because he was traumatized. It made sense, he rationalized, he’s been through a lot of shit and he wasn’t exactly one hundred percent sane to being with--

          “Mr. Wentz?”

          There she stood in his doorway, her sturdy legs and bare feet peeking out under a white hoodie, too large for her, as it hung down to her thighs. It had his own band’s name proudly blazed across it in black. Her hair was ruffled, and her eyes were wide, like he’d startled her awake, which, he supposed he must have, as she’d come seemingly to his rescue once more. At least now he didn’t have to deal with his nightmares and memories (one and the same at this point) alone; she was definitely proving herself to be his guardian angel, and the harsh glare of the light on that white sweatshirt definitely made her look like one. Or maybe he was delirious again. He honestly didn’t know if those drugs were gone from his system yet.

“Mr. Wentz?” Josephine asked again, tentatively taking a step towards him.

          “Pete’s just fine, angel. Mr. Wentz is my dad.” he rasped, surprised yet again to the hoarseness of his voice. He paused, wondering if he’d really just let that endearment roll off his tongue. Once upon a time he wouldn’t care so much (presumptuous and Pete were one and the same, his friends used to tease) but he was strangely self-conscious now; perhaps the result of his captivity and torture, perhaps out of respect for the one he probably owed his life to, he probably would never know.

          “Well, are you okay, Pete?” She asked, apparently ignoring his nickname. “I heard you… screaming.” She sat on his bedside table, putting on a pair of rectangular glasses and peering at him. She had this sincerely concerned look in her eyes that reminded him of his mom, in the days after an ill-advised decision made in a parking lot and a handful of Atavan.

          “Just a dream.” He replied. “No, a nightmare.”

          She cracked a smile of understanding, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Stay here,” she said, like he had a choice in the matter, aching body barely allowing the most rudimentary of movements now that the adrenaline was long gone and had long since left an empty terror in its wake. “I’ve got something that will help!”

          The teenager scurried out of the room, and Pete closed his eyes. He wondered to himself if this was stupid, trusting some girl he hardly knew. It wasn’t like he had any other options, he told himself for what might have been the second time. Besides, she looked innocent enough. (But looks could be deceiving, couldn’t they? Isn’t that what got him in trouble last time? When that bitch had betrayed him, stabbed him in the neck with a syringe of whatever drug had made him and Joe and Andy half-insane for who knows how long?)

He took a deep breath. When he finally opened his eyes, there she was, with a mug in her hands.

          “What have I got here?” she sang, grinning with such childlike glee that he had to smile himself.

          “It smells pretty good, whatever it is.” He commented, allowing the sweet scent to waft over him. She handed him the mug, and he allowed himself a full dose of the wonderful familiar smell, taking him back to snowy days and fishing for horseshoe crabs and coming home for snacks with his brother and sister.

          “Go on, drink it!” she urged, and, met with the expectancy in her gaze, Pete tried to obey her. But he hesitated, his lips at the rim of the mug, his hands unable to muster the courage to tilt the liquid into his mouth.

          “Trust me. Please? It’s gonna be okay. I promise.” The girl urged him again, staring him down. “It’s only hot chocolate.” She added. The childish urging on her round face made his heart pang for his son. And before he realized, he had taken a sip of the sweet heat. A dollop of whipped cream was left on his lip, and he licked it off.

“It’s really good.” He said dumbly, staring at his cup.

          “No shit, Sherlock! I probably shouldn’t be giving you sugar since you haven’t had a proper meal in God knows how long, but, chocolate has awesome value as an antidepressant or some shit, _and_ I figured if you’re gonna be staying with us a couple days, you may as well get comfy and know you’re safe with us here! Plus, this is from my stash, so you better appreciate it.” She babbled at him, and he greedily sipped from the steaming mug as she spoke. He only half listened, but her last words caught his attention.

          “Us?” he repeated. “Here? Who do you mean by, ‘us’, and where do you mean by, ‘here’?”

          Jo paused, and he could almost see the cogs turning in her head as she pondered how to properly answer his question. She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

          “I told you yesterday,” she finally replied.

          “Well tell me again.” he said, staring her down. She shifted again, noticeably uncomfortable.

          “You remember, I told you I was in a band? And you signed us to your label.” she began, and Pete nodded, urging her on. “Before you guys went on hiatus, it was a pretty promising time for pop punk or alternative bands or whatever you wanna call the bands like you and My Chem and shit…

          “So you guys were steadily gaining steam, and then, the economy tanked. Anyway, after the economy tanked, I don’t know, it just kind of put a bad taste in everybody’s mouths. Music that encouraged you to just dance like you’re disappointed in the world got really popular. Music like yours, like ours, got pushed to the back seat in the eyes of the mainstream.”

          Pete was beginning to wonder what this had to do with his question, as he remembered this as well as she did, but he held his tongue.

          “And then you guys went on hiatus…” Jo trailed off, fiddling with the drawstrings of her sweatshirt. “Clay bought this sweatshirt at one of your last tours.” She chuckled, a little sadly. “Anyway, you guys went on hiatus, and then, it was like the industry was suddenly taken over. Panic! and My Chem took a step back, and Paramore was popular for a while, as well as guys like Black Veil Brides, but for some reason, they weren’t exactly the poster children of the genre. They were known, yeah, but, I don’t know. They weren’t you guys.

          “So like, that love for rock and roll kind of died down a bit. In 2011, when you signed us on? We weren’t the only bands out there. There were so many little bands like ours, like these guys from my home town called Faithful Day, so many of us were sick of all the pop shit, sick of all the Katy Perrys and Kelly Clarksons, bless them though, sick of all the Jason Derulos and just, sick. So as characteristic of our genre, we channeled our anger into music. And we got your attention. I’m grateful, but, through you, it got us the wrong kind of attention.

          “The industry didn’t like that we were trying to bring back the music. Music that makes you feel more than the need to sob over your ex or dance until you’re so drunk you can’t even walk, that is. I mean, I love Wammy-Z as much as the next guy, but God knows I can’t quite let go as much as I would like to. Anyway, while we were trying to bring rock and roll back to the forefront, other bands were kind of trying to fuse its messages or just plain blend in with the pop sound, like, Cobra Starship, and Passion Pit, and Vampire Weekend… And they got pretty damn far.”

          Pete wondered for a moment if Patrick wrote Soul Punk for the same reason. Josie paused, and Pete watched her fiddling with the drawstrings of her hood. The silence only lasted a few heartbeats, and then she glanced at him as if waiting for him to comment. Pete shrugged, still meditating on his best friend’s solo album, then decided that, if, no, _when_ he saw Patrick again, he’d have to ask him. She continued.

          “I’m beginning to think they were right... But Noah and Clay were pretty firm, they didn’t want to delve too much into the pop sound and end up like Maroon 5, you know? But anyway, when you signed us on, shit, it just… got us the wrong kind of attention. It got us the right kind, definitely, we were making albums and we were on tour, and it was seven hundred kinds of fun! And then we met Big Sean, and he told us to watch out.” She laughed bitterly. “You know Sean. He got his stupid ass killed...” She looked out towards the window, a shade of melancholy muting her futures.

          Pete turned his head away, remembering him and all he’d done for them. “He was a good guy.” He mumbled, regretting heavily that Sean had gotten tangled up in the shit that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He took a deep breath. Now was not the time to dwell on Sean, as much as he wished he could.

          “Yeah, he was,” Jo agreed, then, at his expectant stare, continued on with her tale. “So yeah, Sean warned us about trying to take the industry back. I mean, we definitely weren’t alone! My Chem and Panic and Paramore and Gym Class Heroes, they were all doing about the same thing as we were in their own way, even Cobra Starship was around..." she looked wistful and Pete chewed on this information, imagining Gabe and Mikey and Brendon as they worked their asses off the past few years.  "I know you were keeping good tabs on them, probably better than you were with us, but we had a little network. We were all working for the same thing… the music, not the money. And then it started. I was the first, I think, of this era. I was just walking in the city, I was going to the studio with a demo CD of all of our latest shit. And it was pretty hardcore, let me tell you!! We had a couple covers, too, in fact the best was of you guys… 27, I think. So as I was saying, I was going to the studio, and they… got me. They just. Knocked me out.” Jo shivered, her tongue slipping out to wet her lips before she continued. “… And… I woke up somewhere… Probably some basement in L.A., if I tell you the truth, and God, it was horrible. I don’t know what they were trying to do to me, but it was like they were trying to brainwash me. It was some real Clockwork Orange shit. It didn’t stick though, whatever those bitches and 2Chainz were trying to do.” She smiled at him, but it was an empty smile, the kind you had when you were saying, _At least I didn’t die, right?_ , the kind you had with a morbid optimism because you had nothing left.

“My bandmates came to my rescue, but Noah got hurt and, those girls, in the leather? I bet you’ve seen them… They… took his appendix. Which, you know, is all well and fine because it’s a useful fucking organ…”

\--Pete was beginning to think that she rambled when she was nervous or uncomfortable, and it reminded him for a moment of Brendon-- “… But then they made us—they made us watch, while they forced him eat it. He’s a vegetarian now because of that incident, and we don’t blame him. We don’t really eat meat much anymore either.” She paused, looking at him. His face had turned pale, and he’d set the cocoa aside.

          _“Eat up, Pete!”_

_“What the fuck is this, Joe?”_

_“I don’t know, it’s fucking awesome!”_

_“PETE! STOP! JOE!!! ANDY, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”_

_“They can’t hear you, Patrick, they’re having the time of their lives. It’s all just fun to them. Why don’t you have some too?”_

“Pete?”

          “They did the same thing to us. To Patrick. Only we ate his guts.” Pete shuddered, feeling nauseous at the thought. “Jesus Christ, I thought it was only us. I’m so sorry. How did you guys—?”

          “We had… help…” Her eyes softened and she turned away. “I’m sorry you guys weren’t so lucky. Jon Walker and Ryan Ross, they came to our rescue. And the Ways were there too. And Hayley Williams… I don’t know how they all knew to come, Sean probably told them, he was always looking out for our sorry asses…” She chuckled. “So we got out, thanks to them, and we got the fuck out of that scene. I mean, Noah only has one kidney,” She tried to joke, but her face stayed grim. She sighed. “We ran like hell and set up this place as a secret safe-house for musicians and people on the run from _them_. I picked the name,” she proclaimed proudly, then turned to him. “Your song, 27? It was one of my favorites. And we were thinking, we’re the babies of the group and if we keep going like we have, we’re sure as hell not gonna make it to 27…”

She trailed off, her voice fading. Pete patted her knee awkwardly. She shook herself, and then turned to him.

“So, yeah,” she continued, discomfort obvious in the memory of past unpleasantness. He felt he should interrupt and tell her to stop if she wanted, but she pushed on before he could say anything. “You’ll be staying with us a while, I think. This is Roadhouse 27, and this baby is our pride and joy. This motel has got a pretty sweet set up! We totally hooked it up with the last of our money. Place was absolute _shit_ when we first found it, and it was super shady. There’s a basement that we soundproofed so we can play whenever we need the pick me up, and it also doubles as a lounge for people to just kind of, chill. We’re no five-star hotel, and there are only four and a half of us on staff, but we’ve got enough perks around that you won’t go for wanting. And, we’ll take care of you until you’re good to go.

          “We being, me, and Noah, and Angel, and Clay, and sometimes Luci.” She clarified before he could ask. “We’re Dastardly Good Looks and we’re at your service.” She smiled ruefully. “We bought this place, tinkered it with the money we had left—you’d be surprised how much cash Noah keeps in his wallet—and we’ve been camped out here for about a year and a half, two years, making sure people like us and you aren’t alone in the world.”

          Pete nodded. He offered a small half-smile to her, and then replied, “Thank you. I owe you guys my life. Even though it sounds like it’s kind of my fault you’re in this mess.”

          “It’s our own,” Josie corrected, looking out to the window, where the sun was rising in the distance. “We wanted to be big, and we were. We turned ourselves into martyrs and as a result, we got burned. And then you guys came back, you guys brought back hope to what the Remixes—that’s what we call those people--thought they had under control, and they were _pissed_.”

          “Yeah, I can see that.” Pete shook his head. “But what about the others? The other bands you mentioned… are they…?”

          Jo looked away. “I’ll explain later. Come on, I want you to meet my bandmates, and then we’ll get some food in you. How does that sound?”

          Pete didn’t like that she averted the explanation and changed topics, but he understood. She was probably suffering from the remembering of all these dark memories, dark times that Pete hadn’t even realized was happening, but in hindsight, he can see it clearly. When he was with the Black Cards, he’d seen the fear, and the whispers, when they saw him, when they heard them... And Gabe had kept telling him…

          _Don’t come back to the scene, Pete._

_Why, Saporta? Scared I’ll steal the thunder back?_

_No, dude. It’s different. Way fucking different._

Caught up in the thought, Pete chuckled darkly. And he had thought they had been the only ones trying to save rock and roll. They’d all tried to warn him, but he’d been too fucking stupid to realize it. Had his bandmates, his brothers, known about it before he realized it? He prayed for their sakes that his bird had gotten to where he had sent it. That had been so long ago, when he’d sent it flying into the sky. The next moment he remembered was that goddamn table and wine in the form of blood.

          “What do you say, Pete? Wanna go, or do you wanna stay here and rest for a little while longer?” Jo asked, and Pete was beginning to appreciate her patience with his recent tendency to space out.

          “I don’t know where you’re going but do you got room for one more troubled soul?” He finally asked, as she helped him to his feet. She chuckled and smiled.

          “Yeah. Come on, Wentz.”

* * *

 

          _Where the fuck am I…_

          Joe Trohman groaned. His head hurt like a fucking… he didn’t even know how to describe it. But it hurt. Bad. He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his wild fro, and he surveyed his surroundings.

          Tree.

          Tree.

          Tree.

          Dead tree.

          Yeah, he’s in a fucking forest.

          Joe stood up on shaky legs, using the nearest tree as a support. He stretched his arms. He cracked his neck. And then, he let go of the tree.

          “FUCK.”

          His face maybe wasn’t the most handsome face around, but that didn’t mean that it deserved to meet the ground every so often. Really, a guy’s face isn’t meant to hit the ground quite so many times in a row. He rubbed his sore cheeks and nose with another groan. Jesus Christ on a sandwich, where in the world was Joe Trohman today?

          He got up again and tried again.

          After a couple more faceplants, he eventually got himself back in walking condition. And then. He just walked.

 _Find a road._ He told himself. _Find a road. Steal a car maybe. I don’t know. Just do something. Maybe get some help. Andy and Pete have gotta be out here somewhere. Patrick too._

Joe wasn’t able to walk fast, but he could walk. He bit his lip when his stomach growled. Jesus. When was the last time he ate? _What_ was the last thing he ate?

          The guitarist had to take a minute to sit down.

          “Jesus Christ,” he said aloud, “I’m a fucking cannibal.”

 

* * *

 

          Andy Hurley was livid. Absofuckinglutely livid.

          He couldn’t quite do anything about it, though, because he was lying on his back in the middle of a field. Was it a field? Andy looked around.   No, a clearing’s a better word for it.

          Anyway, Andy was livid.

          Andy didn’t get mad easily, unlike Pete and Patrick. When he was mad, though, it meant that everybody ought to get the fuck out of dodge. And he was _mad_.

          They’d hurt him. They’d hurt his best friends. They’d torched his goddamn set. They’d made him eat Patrick meat. Then they’d tried to fucking kill him, multiple times.

          Sure, him and Joe and Patrick, and maybe even Pete to some extent, had known this was coming. That case was the key to saving rock and roll, of course they’d known, especially him, what was coming.

          But what the fuck?

          What the actual fuck?

          Andy took a deep breath. He sat up, tentatively, then listened. No voices. Only wind, only birds, and only the steady _dumdum, dumdum, dumdum_ of his pulse in ears.

          He laid back on the ground, just for a minute. He’s honestly got no idea if it would be worth it to run right now. They’d just capture them right back, right? Pete had tried to get away a lot, and they always put him right back. Andy looked dismally to the cloudy sky above him. It wasn’t the kind of cloudy that meant rain, it was the kind of cloudy that meant, it’s a really shitty day and even the universe agrees with you.

          Andy took a deep breath. A deep, deep, deep-ass breath.

          _“Why, Pete?” Andy asked. “Why us? Why now?”_

_“It’s our destiny.” Pete said confidently, and Andy kind of admired that childlike confidence._

_“Pete. You’re fucking crazy.” Andy said, shaking his head._

_“Come on, Andy.” Pete pleaded. “Come back to the band! We’re not Fall Out Boy without you.”_

_“Aw, Pete. Be real. You know how fucking stupid that is. People don’t want that kinda music anymore. We’d have to—,”_

_“Make something new, yeah, yeah, yeah, Trohman and Stump already stabbed that idea to death. Come on, Hurley. Come on.” Pete was giving him that look, that look Andy knew from years of knowing Pete, that look that told him he’d have no way out of this one._

_He pursed his lips._

_“Why do you really want to get the band back together?”_

_Pete simply smirked, and said, “I want to save rock and roll.”_

He should have said no.

          If Andy had said no, he’d be on the outside, he’d be able to bail his idiot friends out of this situation they were in. He swallowed hard, and he forced himself into a sitting position again.

          Every aching limb, every throbbing muscle, every painful swallow, every thrum of his heart beating, reminded him that it wasn’t too late. He was still alive, just barely. He’d thought he was dead, after those demented demon children had chased him in the forest. He’d thought he was dead.

          But he’s not dead.

          And he’s gotta find his friends.

          Mechanically, Andy got up. He set his feet in a random direction. If he just kept walking, maybe he’d find his way back. If he wasn’t too far away from Joe and Pete and Patrick, he might run into one of them.

          He hoped to God he would.  He wanted them back.

 

* * *

 

          Pete wasn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a stocky olive-skinned raven-haired guy in a pastel pink Hello Kitty apron singing _Roxanne_ while he cooked, a blond guy in a dark gray cardigan, of all things, rapping some admittedly sick rhymes between verses, another blond guy, this one built like a goddamn football player, setting a table for seven as a stunningly pretty young woman handed him silverware for each place.   Then another guy walked in, clad with Beats headphones and some odd asymmetrical haircut reminiscent to Pete’s “emo” years, tight jeans and Clandestine hoodie that made Pete do a double-take. He spun into the arms of the muscular guy, kissed him, and then began to sing loudly, harmonizing with the guy in the pink apron as if they’d had years of experience. (Which, if what Jo had said in Pete’s bedroom was true, and Pete didn’t have any reason to think it wasn’t just yet, they probably did.)

          “Guys,” Josephine groaned, face palming and evidently confirming Pete’s observation of their questionable musical experience, “Stop showing off for Pete, Jesus Christ. The man _just_ woke up.”

          “Well good morning to you too, sunshine,” the other girl chuckled, her long blonde hair done in a messy updo, curvy body clad in a denim jacket and tight black pants and shirt, her brow studs glittering in the light. She appraised Jo with cat-lined eyes, then added, “And put on some real pants.”

          “I’m wearing tights, Luci, they’re close enough,” Jo defended.

          “Uh huh. Anyway, boys,” Luci turned to the guys, stopping their music, “Stop with the unironic 80s covers and introduce yourselves to our guest.”

          “Stop telling us what to do, Luci,” The guy who had been rapping said, who Pete now noticed had spiderbites and gauges, and he wrapped his arms around the blonde and kissing her cheek, “You’re the oldest woman here, but that doesn’t mean you’re our mom or anything. Pete fuckin’ Wentz is in the room, of course we’re gonna wanna show off to him.” The woman, now identified as Luci, only laughed, taking the young man by the chin and kissing him. (Pete respectfully looked away; he didn’t want anybody to think him a creep or anything. He was already wanted for murder and encouraging anarchy, among other things, he didn’t need to add perversion to that list of blotches on his record.)

          “Get a room, dude, come on, this guy just met us, we don’t want him to run out screaming when he hasn’t had a proper meal yet,” the Beats guy, the one who kind of looked like Pete Wentz circa 2003, chuckled. “Hey, I’m Noah Lawson.” He held his hand out. Pete shook it awkwardly. Three strong pumps, just like his dad taught him.

          “Pete. Pete Wentz. Wait, you already knew that…” Pete replied, then added, “Anyway, it’s nice to meet you again. You guys look a lot different than I remember!”

          “Haha, yeah, we’re all grown up now. Anyway, welcome to Roadhouse 27, Pete.” Noah smiled. “I’m Noah—wait, I said that already—guy in the pink apron is Clay, and the Raleigh Becket-looking guy in the sweater is Angel. The big teddy bear in the back is my baby, Ezekial. Blondie over there is Lucinda—“

          “My name is _Luci,_ you little shit.” The woman in question cut in with a glare that made Noah shiver.

          “… ray of sunshine, isn’t she?” He laughed uneasily while his friends muffling their snickering, then he looked back at Pete. “And this baby girl is Josie, but you already knew that.” He squeezed Jo in a side hug, and Pete quirked a smile. Well, at least they were all close.

          “We’re Dastardly Good Looks and we are at your service.”

* * *

 

          _Jesus Christ…_

Patrick stared at the sky as the clouds passed. He groaned, moving to put a hand over his face.

          “Ow, fuck!”

          He looked down. He just scratched himself with his goddamn hook. He just scratched himself with his goddamn hook, and his name is Patrick Stump. Fate has never been crueler to him.

          And it really hadn’t, looking at what had happened. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought it wouldn’t happen, because he knew, he’d known it would. It’s just hurt nonetheless that the shit had hit the fan anyway. And that they’d failed.

          _Did you really though, Patrick? You wanted to be rid of that fucking briefcase._

“Who said that?”

          _I did~_

Patrick swallowed hard, ignoring the aches all over his body, and the agony of the rudimentary stitches on his abdomen, as he sat up, looking around.

          “Who’s there? Come out. I don’t fucking care if you’re gonna kill me or not, just let me see your face.” It was tall talk, he didn’t even know he had that kind of air of dominance in him, but there it was. The words were out.

          _Oh, Patrick. Don’t be like that. You know you wouldn’t hurt_ yourself _, like the other sad emo kids._

“Wh-What do you mean?” He asked, even though he had a damn good feeling he knew just what they meant.

          _Come on, Patty-cakes. You remember. The machine they hooked us up to, the liberator! The good music they played for you, not that rock and roll shit your friends like. You remember what Miss Love told us. You remember._

_“You’re going to be ours, Stump.”_

The horror mounted in him, but he kept control of it. He took a deep breath, he closed his eyes, and covered his face with his one hand.

          _Don’t ignore me, Patrick, I know you can hear me._

_Patrick!_

_PATRICK!_

_FUCK YOU STUMP, I’M GOING TO WIN, I’M GOING TO TAKE YOUR GODDAMN BODY AND KILL EVERY GODDAMN SHITHEAD YOU LOVE. YOU HEAR ME? I KNOW YOU DO. After all. I’m you._

Patrick turned over and vomited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wait, WHAT? That's it?"
> 
> Sadly, so!  
> The next chapter will have the cool action-y violent stuff, I promise. And more of DGL. :) I hope you have a good day!  
> Songs Referenced:  
> Sugar We're Going Down (Chapter Title)  
> 27 (Explained in the Chapter)  
> The (Shipped) Gold Standard ("fishing for horseshoe crabs")  
> Dance Miserable (From Soul Punk) ("Music that encouraged you to just "dance like you're disappointed in the world" got really popular...")  
> Alone Together (""I don't know where you're going but do you got room for one more troubled soul?"" He finally asked as she helped him to his feet.")


	3. On the Back of a Hurricane, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete spends some time with DGL and co., while The Adder begins her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Chapter 3! Process with this fic is slow-going, but I hope you don't find this chapter too boring to read. The fun deathy death stuff happens next chapter! >:)

Pete stared at the gathered youths. All of them still had a glint of hope and defiance in their eyes, even if the same grim bitterness and paranoia that darkened Jo’s features, cast shadows under Noah’s eyes, and made Lucinda glance at the exits several times in the span of the same amount of minutes, lingered in the backs of their minds. Still, their resilience and youth reminded Pete, once more, of himself more than a decade ago, of his best friends, of tired boys in a broken down van. He swallowed hard, feeling dizzy all of a sudden. Was that why he had signed them on, years ago? Because they had reminded him of the early days? They reminded him of hopeful, foolish teenagers, screaming their sorrows onto the world, getting teen hearts beating faster and faster, reminded him of Brendon and Ryan and Spencer, of Hayley, of kids in a scene. Pete didn’t even know why he had signed them on anymore; he hardly remembered anything about these kids, he added to himself guiltily. The whirlwind of parenthood and other obligations, of the hiatus, and pursuits had completely blown them from his mind. And that made him feel more than a little guilty, for his involvement in their career should have meant his guidance, his insight, but his involvement had only got them into trouble. His involvement had cut short their youth, which was supposed to be misspent in ways that don’t involve blood and kidnap and murder—

That was the sort of thing that he couldn’t afford thinking about right now; he didn’t have time to deal with his inner demons, not when there were real demons pursuing them, all of them.

He supposed they had done well for themselves, all things considered. At least, they’d done better than Pete would have at their age. Jo and Noah were still in their late teens, while the others were in their early twenties. They were at the age where they should be arguing about silly things, partying all the time, loving, and laughing, not constantly looking over their backs, taking in terrified strangers, and figuring out how to fight a losing war. Pete’s heart hurt. He could only imagine what their parents thought, having not heard from their children in two years; especially Jo and Noah, both having missed out on the last of their childhood in the name of the music. They’d been thrown into the middle of a revolution, and they were just fucking kids. His lip curled at the thought. This was it, this was why they had taken Xibalba. To protect kids from this bullshit.

“Pete, Jesus, sit down, you look like you’re going to attack. You’re scaring the fuck out of my boyfriend.” Noah urged him to sit, over the really big guy’s protest of, “He is not, I’m just concerned!” and Pete shook his head. Ever since they’d busted into that hell-hole in Death Valley, ever since he’d chained and bound Xibalba to a motherfucking briefcase, he’d been feeling dark, dark thoughts seep into his head, whispers of evil and promises of death. If he was this way, he could only imagine how Patrick felt. Patrick, who had straight up summoned him, who now is pretty much bound to Xibalba until they get the case back and destroy it like they should have in the beginning.

“Earth to Pete! You want breakfast, or not?” Noah snapped in his face, and Pete looked up at the boy, clad in a crimson Clan hoodie that admittedly kind of hurt his eyes to look at, that shade is atrocious.

(“Pete, that shade is atrocious.”   
“Shut up, Gabe. Shit, I thought this was Cobra was all about, making emo kids bright and happy?”  
“Anyone who finds joy with that shade of red is probably fucking demented. Am I right, Vicky-T?  
“This is the one time I’ll agree with you, Saporta. Don’t let it get to your head.”)

“Yeah, breakfast sounds good.” Pete finally forced himself to say, shaking off yet another bout of nostalgia. What was wrong with him? Almost everything was setting him off. Maybe it was because he hadn’t taken his meds, or it was because his meds had mixed with the drugs, or maybe it was because he’d nearly fucking died a few days ago.

“What’d you make, Clay?” Jo asked, leaving Pete’s side to cross the room and peer into the pan.   
“Eggs for miles, stacks and stacks of pancakes, sausages, hash browns,” Clay ticked the list off on his fingers, and Pete’s stomach growled tellingly. 

“It’s because all this shit was about to spoil so we kinda have to actually all eat for once,” Lucinda drawled, setting one last place at the large table set for them. “That and, sliced fruit was meant to go with pancakes, and pancakes need eggs!”

“The fact that Clay has an unironic love for cooking and baking ever since Jo taught him is notwithstanding, obviously,” Angel quipped dryly back, sitting down and pulling Lucinda into his lap. She swatted his shoulder. 

“God, babe, don’t complain, we eat damn good now!”

“Damn straight, now shut up or I’ll make Clay take away your portions. All of you shut up, actually, we have a guest to feed.” Jo took charge of the situation. Even if she was the smallest, she seemed to puff up and surprisingly, the five others listened to her. Pete wondered passingly if there was a story behind that. Maybe she was the glue that held them together. Maybe they just humored her because she’d been kidnapped.

Breakfast turned out to be fun, at least, more so than most things that Pete’s done in the past week. It reminded him of being out on tour, actually. Jo played doting mother, making sure he ate all his food and heaping on more, (“You’ve got to make up for all the lost nutrition!” “Jo, slow down, Jesus, he’s gonna choke if you keep shoveling food onto his plate.”) Noah drank an obnoxious amount of coffee and was accosted for smoking at the table, (“Jesus Christ on a sandwich, Noah, if you don’t put out that cigarette right now I’m going to put you on toilet duty for the rest of the year,” “I’m sorry I’m offending your delicate sensibilities, Lucinda.” “Please, Noah? I thought you were going to quit… You’re going to get lung cancer; I don’t want my No-No Bird dying on me.” “Gay.” “Damn it, shut up Angel. Okay, babe. Kiss?”) Pete discovered that Clay and Ezekial, despite not having much resemblance, are brothers, (“Noah, stop kissing my brother in front of me.” “What? Ezekial is Clay’s brother?” “Half brothers. But yeah.”) and then they were all reminiscing about old days and old friends and tour life. Noah told some really hilarious story, actually, about a set they’d done with Twenty-One Pilots and how Josh had pranked them really hard. Or maybe they’d pranked Josh? Pete had only been half-listening to be honest.

“What’s up, Pete?” Jo asked, and Pete was really beginning to think she was a mind reader. She picked up on him as well as Patrick did. Does, he corrected himself.

“… What’s happened to the other bands?” He asked quietly.

And then the chatter from the table went quiet. The silence was deafening. The tension was thick as that proverbial butter. Pete chanced to look up at his new friends, and he saw Noah shaking.

“You mean, you don’t know?”

“Well, fuck, Noah, dude’s been underground, then he got kidnapped. How the fuck would he know?” Lucinda ground out back him. Pete tensed himself at the hardened faces of all of them.

“Don’t talk that way to him,” Ezekial glared Lucinda down, rising to his full, intimidating height of six-foot-hot-damn and squaring his broad and toned shoulders. “Now give me your plates.” 

Silently, the group stacked their empty plates and Pete’s brow furrowed as he tried to gauge the situation here. Once white porcelain plates were gathered on a tray, Ezekial left the room. It was hard to ignore his clenched biceps as he passed. After a moment, Noah looked at Pete, mumbled an apology, and followed. Pete looked at the remaining at the table—Angel, Jo, Lucinda, and Clayton. They avoided looking at anything, glanced around at this and that and fidgeted like if they stilled they would lose their lives.

“Can we tell him?” Jo asked suddenly, looking at her friends.

“He’s a defender of the faith! He’s one of us!!! Of course we can.” Clay cried out, evidently offended by the very question. Running a hand through his messy ebony hair, he calmed himself with a deep breath. He glanced at his friends, then sighed deeply, those broad shoulders built like his brother’s slumping as he leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands. “Just. How?”

“Okay. I’ll do it. Look, Pete. Truth is? Pretty much everyone is dead. Or crazy. Or ran away. Shit hit the fan while you guys were hiding out with the ‘case.” Angel put in, blunt and looking unapologetic about the gravity of his words. Pete’s eyes widened as Jo cried out a scandalized “ANGEL!”

“What? Pete deserves to know the truth.” His face hardened, and he fidgeted, turning and twisting a ring around his finger. “And the truth is that everyone is gone! Brendon is fucking apeshit insane, Josh and Tyler are as good as dead, they’re slaves to Love now, Ryan Ross is God-knows-where, and damn it Jo, you saw Hayley slit her own goddamn throat! The Ways killed each other after their band bit the dust and… Sean…” Angel’s face twisted into a look of anguish. “There is no war, there is no resistance, it’s just us and fucking Saporta and we’re not gonna get anywhere with that shit. That’s why we made a motel. To get away from this shit, maybe help some assholes out when they show their faces around here, but Love is ironic as hell, probably knows we’re here now that I think about it, and she dumped Fall Out Boy literally on our doorstep, and hell! We’re gonna bite the bait, aren’t we, we’re gonna help them, we’re gonna charge back in there, and we’re gonna die. Plain and simple.”

The silence in the air returned, and as Angel calmed, Pete could tell that he wasn’t a guy that normally got so angry. Pete figured that anybody in this scene would get angry after all that. Still, he swallowed hard, staring into his drink.

“Everyone’s dead,” he echoed. 

“I was going to say it in gentler terms,” Jo began, looking guilty and genuinely grieved, “But… yeah. First Love and the Remixes tried to infiltrate and brainwash… that’s what they did to anybody they captured, they tried to brainwash them… now, ever since you guys stepped back in… it’s like… they’re trying to flat-out exterminate.” 

“If they can’t control us, they don’t want us.” Pete stated, and Jo just nodded.

“And if they can’t kill us, they want us separated. Disillusioned. It’s simple psychology… Alone, we are nothing, but united, we are an army.” She added, that bitter look returning to her.

“Why don’t you fight back anymore?” Pete asked. He had an inkling, he just wanted to hear it from their mouths. There was silence for a long time, until Jo began to speak.

“I got scared. I didn’t want to end up like everybody else. I haven’t been the same ever since Love tortured me early on in all of this. I’m fucked up. And Noah’s pretty fucked up too, just like you guys are! We were fucking scared so we pussyed out and we wouldn’t fight anymore. We just patched the others up and we gave them a place to stay when they had nowhere else to go.” She swallowed, then looked away. Clay squeezed her hand and continued for her.

“You see… We didn’t know—still don’t—what we were doing half the time. Love was terrifying then, she’s a damn nightmare come true now. Our hearts were in the cause… but after we saw what they did to Jo and Noah, the four of us agreed to run like hell. We picked up my brother and Luci, and then we just camped out here. Saporta found us first, then everybody else trickled in.”

“They were better to us than we ever deserved.” Jo added quietly. “We gave up and they didn’t even hold it against us. Gabe especially.”

“Brendon helped. He kept the air nice and light, even with the shit between him and Ryan,” Clay chuckled, his eyes glazing at the nostalgia.

“Just like you do,” Jo smiled up at him, and Pete looked away, feeling once again as if he’d intruded on a very private moment. “Anyway… at least maybe one day the old Brendon Will be back… But he got the same treatment as me and broke. He snapped and was saying some crazy things. We can’t protect him here so we put him into a rehab center. I hope he’s okay…”

Pete absorbed this, reflecting sadly on that. Brendon was still alive, at least, but what good was having him around if he wasn’t the same lovable, quirky, hyperactive kid he remembers? Pete remembered the time he called Brendon, just a little before he discovered how fucked up everything is, just after he decided to save rock and roll, and just before they put him in the box.

Hey, Brendon!   
What’s up, Pete?  
Want to tour with Fall Out Boy? We’re getting a little reunion tour together, you know, getting the band back together, all that good stuff! Whaddaya say, Brendon my boy? Eh?  
I don’t know, Pete…. I’ll uh, I’ll talk it over with the guys, okay? I’ll call you back.

Pete had never gotten that call back. Now he knew why.

“Hey, Wentz.” Pete looked up, and it was the pretty blonde, Lucinda, who addressed him.

“Yeah?” He asked oh-so-eloquently.

“What did you do to make her hate you so much? Love. She did a lot of scary shit to you. I saw. I helped Jo when she dressed your wounds.”

“I existed.” Pete laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t do what she wanted. I wouldn’t submit. I said fuck that, is that the best you’ve got? And then, I flipped her off.”

“No, really.” Clay peered at him. “Courtney’s cruel, but she’s doesn’t sic the bunch of brainwashed kids on just anybody. Normally… that’s what 2Chainz is supposed to do, terrorize you with a bigass flamethrower. She really must have wanted to fuck you guys up.”

“Or to keep you alive and frightened.” Angel added. “Because… well… if you got away when you were half-dead on your feet… she probably wasn’t even fucking trying.”

Pete sighed. May as well be honest with these guys, if they hate Love as much as he does.

“You gotta place where a guy can spill his beans without worrying about staining the carpet?” He finally asked, and that cracked a smile in all of them.

“You wanna see that sick basement I told you about?” Jo asked with a broad grin.

…

The basement was pretty sick, honestly.

“Holy shit.”

It was furnished with hardwood, but there was a stage in the back, the lights were dim, and the walls were dark and hung up with pictures, records, discs, and a monitor here and there. There were a couple of tables, but there were mostly couches and sofas and plush armchairs, and Pete was thinking it was rock club meets teenage basement. Which, looking at DGL, he supposed it pretty much was.

The best part was the instruments. By the stage, there was a display case of guitars and basses and—is that a mandolin? That’s a fucking mandolin—stacks on stacks of guitar strings. In the case beside it, there was a saxophone, a clarinet, a French horn. Onstage, there was a beautiful, gleaming white baby grand piano that Patrick would probably shit himself if he was told that he was allowed to play it. The drum kit was a mishmash of different drums, and Pete wondered about it, but then again percussion was more of a Patrick and Andy thing than a Pete thing. Pete was itching to play a bass again, and the more he looked around, the more unwilling he was to leave the guitar case where there was a beautiful, shining black bass standing next to a violin. 

“Wanna play it?” Clay asked, grinning at him knowingly. “That’s mine. That red one is Noah’s. Me and Noah switch off playing bass sometimes. Or well, we used too… Anyway… Her name’s Charlotte, after Good Charlotte. I’ll let you play if you want!”

Pete just nodded, afraid that something stupid would come out of his mouth if he actually spoke.

Clay reached into the case and handed Pete the black bass he’d been eying. Pete slung the strap around his shoulder, and held the guitar in his hands with awe. Somewhere at Meagan’s his bass was sitting in a case, or maybe it had been destroyed. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to know if his bass was trashed, actually. He wasn’t sure he could handle that. 

Clay plugged the bass into an amp onstage. Pete sat at the edge and strummed a few notes, feeling pounding bass lines and low tones smoothing over their favorite riffs. He once joked that his heartbeat was the bassline from Dance, Dance. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was. The music was just in him, through and through. 

He didn’t even notice he’d gotten so into it, until he glanced up and Clay was playing guitar next to him, and then there were drumbeats coming from Angel in the back, and then Noah peaked in, called over the din, “What, you’re replacing me already?” with a loud laugh. And then he’d grabbed another guitar, and he was playing with them, and Jo, not to be outdone, hopped onto the piano. She sang a little tune, and Noah improvised with her, and Lucinda and Ezekial watched from offstage, the former taking video on an old camera.

The song was pulsing, fast, frantic, hard, and angry. Jo’s alto voice was sometimes a whine, sometimes a growl, and Noah’s deeper tones were gentler, like a promise of tomorrow. Even through the erratic tunes of the music, Pete felt absolutely serene. This was where he belongs. With a guitar, making music. 

When they’d finished, and Pete put the guitar down, he was breathing hard.

“Wow. I feel. A lot better, actually,” He laughed, a light sound, tilting his head back against the nearest wall. He shut his eyes, another breathless chuckle released from his lips.

“I’m glad.” 

Pete started, eyes wide with shock. For a moment, he could have sworn that he was back with his band. But no. He remembered now where he was—with a bunch of kids who are about as terrified as he is, and evidently a quite a bit smarter given they had the sense to get the fuck out of dodge when they could. He looked up at Jo’s face, staring down at him with a glow to her cheeks that hadn’t been present before.

“It’s an addiction, isn’t it? It’s better than any drug,” Clay grinned back at him, and Pete swore his eyes were twinkling. The post-performance high he had quickly faded at the wrongness this all had, the lack of Trohman and Hurley, the lack of Stump’s babyface, the lack of red paint on the bass…  
“Yeah…” Pete half-heartedly agreed, then glanced at Jo. “Why did we come in here again?”

“You were going to spill the beans, those were your exact words, but then you started drooling over Charlotte.” She responded, mock-disinterestedly. Pete’s lips rounded into an understanding “oh”.

“So. Spill, dude.” Clayton nudged him, putting Charlotte back in the case with the other guitars. “I mean. You’ve got lots of time, don’t get me wrong? But you know. Sometimes it’s just like pulling a bandaid.”

“Or pulling teeth.” Quipped Noah, and Jo just gave him a disapproving look to quiet him. “Sorry,” he amended.

“Well, Pete?” Jo folded her arms, and for some reason Pete could not deny her the truth. Maybe the others he could lie through his teeth to, but her? Pete was admittedly fond of her, perhaps because she had been the one he’d woken up to, like a baby bird imprinting—

“Pete.” Jo prompted more fondly, her jaw set in another oddly-like-Patrick motion, and Pete squinted for a moment. He shifted from foot to foot. He cleared his throat. He licked his lips. He shifted feet again. He drew out the moment, because for some reason, he just couldn’t get the words out. But what if they failed? What if they die? Someone needs to know the direness of what they had done, someone needs to know it’s not humans he’s sick with worry about facing.

“We tried to save Rock and Roll by summoning a demon.” Pete finally bit out.

…

There are many, many types of gods and goddesses, of demons and tricksters and angels and fairies. Even in today’s modern age, there is a delicate balance of magical creatures still warring over control of the planet, the constant battle between good and evil, and even today neither side has won. Though, due to recent events by foolish men, the scale is tipping slowly, slowly towards evil.

This was something that even a neutral party like The Adder simply could not have happen. Neutral though she was, she liked her shopping, and she liked the human music that her muse friends inspired in those creatures. Should she allow things to proceed as they are, Xibalba would tip the scale and The Adder did not like that. Xibalba was cold, dark, unfeeling, and smelly. His scent was of rot, and the musty smell of something being dug up for the first time in ten thousand years. Worst of all, the world he reigned would mean chaos, terror, and none of the luxurious indulgences that The Adder had become accustomed to.

The Adder has known Xibalba since the beginning of time. He had always been a god who reigned in destruction, death, gore… all the things that she herself abhors. She has always been the warning against his destruction, her bright colors a neon sign flashing, “THERE BE DANGER”—if anybody had paid attention.

These four, frustrating boys certainly hadn’t, and that meant that The Adder had to resort to desperate measures.

She slithered out of the basket of fruit she had hidden in while they, drugged up and higher than four kites in a stormy sky, had gorged themselves on a combination of the one ironically named Stump’s entrails and other unfortunate victims to Xibalba’s wrath.

He has possessed and corrupted so many already, she reflected sadly, and yet he has not even left the confines of his new cage. He had slithered into the mind of a woman fallen from grace, convinced her that the world would be better off without that which had killed her husband—that the world would be better off without music.

The muses had revolted, incensing the fury, burning in the hearts of those they inspired. And they had watched their beloveds be maimed, die or become corrupted in the backlash from Xibalba’s minions. Some of the muses had died themselves, they had invested so much of their power into their pets. And the minions, the slaves to a chaotic revolution of terrorism and anarchy, they continued to eradicate the last hopes of a balanced world. They were real Vixens, and the sight of them disgusted her. How weak of will they must be, she thought, to have fallen to the influence of a god rendered so powerless by his confines. Or, conversely, perhaps Xibalba was simply that strong?

And still his influence was spreading. Even another neutral party, one who went by many names—The Watcher, The Kid, The Messenger, these were just a few of his numerous titles—had fallen prey to Xibalba’s dark whisperings. The Kid was now using his own powers of suggestion to spread shadows into the hearts of even the children, and that, the Adder found, was simply playing dirty.

And there was still no acknowledgement, no word, no aid from Him. The Adder thought they were better off. He was a negligent God, His only concerns with keeping his white suit clean and playing his white piano. He only intervened once a cataclysm occurred, ushered life back into a planet that had never benefitted from it. The Adder half hoped that would happen, because that would mean that there would be a new start.

But that would be Plan B, for now. At the moment, The Adder had much better things to do.

She slithered to the floor and shed her scales for her human body. The smell of cum, sweat, and blood was strong in the air, an absolute affront on her nostrils. She kicked a table over, scowling. The nerve of those boys, letting themselves get kidnapped!

She had born warning to them, and they hadn’t even looked at her!!!

Offended, she adjusted her hat, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, and manifested herself elsewhere.

The truck, a classic model in a blood orange hue, was laughably easy to talk out of the human. Of course, then again, he was only human, and she a goddess of limitless potential. And only that, for the most part, for she had had much better to do than realizing her cosmic destiny, thank you very much. Yet the flutter of her eyelashes, and his easily broken will half-convinced her that it was about time she did, as well as reminded her how easy it would be for this all to go more FUBAR than it has if she doesn’t. 

For this to work, though, she must appear human. If she appears trustworthy, if she is included into their little posse, then it will be easier for her to coordinate her plans in order to support theirs. Her duty is not to hijack their rebellion; it is merely to help them succeed, no matter what she must do in order to guarantee this gargantuan feat.

So, she climbed in the truck. With the windows rolled down, she can taste the air, and track her boys (when did they become hers? When she began to watch their every move? When she quietly persuaded a Vixen to let her guard down, to present Wentz with an opportunity to escape?) to their latest locations. 2Chainz, she realized with a wrinkled nose, had taken them quite far out. But with a bit of magical coercion, she would be there in no time. With difficulty (what? She may be a goddess, but that doesn’t mean she can drive a stick shift!) she drove towards the nearest—Stump.

…

“We never should have kidnapped that demon.” Pete confessed. “He’s just been wreaking havoc all over! Whatever he did to Love, it was deep. She was like a woman possessed trying to get him back.”

“That’s just it. She must be a woman possessed,” Jo pointed out, and Pete nodded.

“So. I’m marked,” he added, “I’m marked because it knows me. We all put blood in to summon him to us, it instinctively knows where we are at all times--,” and the gravity of that statement finally clicked in his mind, he realized what danger he was putting these now-neutral kids in—

“Aw, shit.” He groaned, and stretched. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I really—I’m sorry—I’m just going to go now okay—I was never here, if I go now they won’t come after you too—,” he babbled quickly, taking the stairs two at a time. To his dismay, he was followed by the youths. He needs to get the fuck away from them, or they’re going to die. They’re going to get swept back up into a hurricane that started turning when they were young--

“--We’re already marked. I was kinda subjected to brainwashing and won, remember?” Jo reminded.

What? Pete’s brain asked unhelpfully.

“Are you saying you talked to a dark god of evil?” Pete asked dryly, taking some water bottles and putting them on the table. Being hydrated was something that could help. Probably. He wasn’t sure of half the things he thought anymore. 

“Bitch, I might have,” She replied with a cheeky grin, and Pete, in spite of his fear for these defenseless kids, laughed.

“Look, we’re already in danger out here. Just stay.” Noah wheedled him, and Pete shook his head.

“No, guys. I’ve gotta jet. The longer I sit on my ass and sleep in a warm bed, the longer my band mates aren’t, and the more he takes over and destroys society as we know it.”

This statement was met by a cacophony of cries of dismay, all differing in their suggestions of tackling this problem.

“Pete, don’t go, you’ll die!”  
“Take us with you, you need back up!”  
“Pete, Pete that’s crazy, you can’t do shit alone!”  
“What are you going to do, Rambo?”  
“Mr. Wentz, please stay one more night.”

“QUIIIEEEET!!!”

The cacophony of shouting voices silenced at the sudden interjection. Jo, who had been silent until then, glanced up at Pete.

“Can I at least provide you with some supplies before you go, a working phone number, and a hug before you go?” she asked calmly, though her eyes seemed about to spill tears. This was probably the last time she’d see him alive. It dawned on him then—he was her hero, and this was the last time she would ever see him. 

“… Yeah.” He sighed. “Yeah, okay. Fine.”

…

It was not without sadness, without regret, without bitterness that Pete left Roadhouse 27. He wished he could stay longer, but it was true—his presence put them in danger. His connection to Xibalba, in combination with Jo’s, was like a shining beacon of “COME HERE! DESTROY US! WE ARE MUSIC LOVING BASTARDS!” 

Should he live through this, he would be coming back.

Hell, he might come back sooner than that if the other guys need a place to rest before they head back out to retrieve the Big Bad from Love. That however would be a bridge he would cross when he gets there.

For now, though, it’s time he trekked around the forest in search of three tired, bedraggled, and possibly passed out grown-ass men, aka, his three best friends on the planet.

God, he prayed for the second time in about three days—he’d spent an entire day passed out in Roadhouse—please let Joe, Andy, and Patrick be okay. Let us live through all this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading Chapter 3 of Nobody Wants to Hear You Sing About Tragedy! Now for my favorite bit-- the references. Did you catch any of these?
> 
> "When You Were Young" -- The Killers  
> "The World's Not Waiting (For Five Tired Boys in a Broken Down Van)" -- Fall Out Boy  
> "Lying is the Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off" -- Panic! At the Disco  
> "Save Rock and Roll" -- Fall Out Boy


	4. On the Back of a Hurricane, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Just One Yesterday...  
> The Adder gathers Andy, Joe, and Pete... She tries to put her pawns in motion, but discovers that while every line is plotted and designed, sometimes one thing out of place can ruin it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, to Chapter Four. I stayed up way late to finish this.... be grateful!!! 
> 
> Slightly NSFW (and perhaps a tad gratuitious) scene in the end--it's character development, all right? /)//(\

“Hey! You need a ride, dude?”

Patrick looked up and carefully hid his hook behind his back. He did indeed need a ride, and it simply wouldn’t do for someone to run away because he didn’t have the decency to put his hook away. The red truck that had pulled up beside him, a classic model, seemed an unlikely choice in the area, and the girl driving it looked much too pretty to be on such a desolated back road.

“What are you doing out here?” He asked, unwilling to trust another pretty woman in the middle of nowhere.

“Running away.” She said simply, adjusting her hat. “Much like you are. Whatever got you really fucked you up good! Though I bet you got them pretty good back with that hook.” She flashed a toothy, almost venomous grin, and Patrick flushed. This hook is going to be an eternal source of his embarrassment—or at least, as long as he lives.

As long as we live, don’t you forget. There’s two of us in here now, Stumpy.  
Quiet, you. You don’t pay rent.

Great. He had gone from on top of the world—beautiful wife, dream career, still able to grab a Starbucks without being recognized, you know, all that—to arguing with himself and trying to hide a hook prosthesis from a pretty brunette who pulled up to a bloodied and, if his new head-neighbor was anything to go by, potentially dangerous stranger on the side of the road. He should thank Pete. Saving rock and roll has definitely developed into the best decision of his life.

Hey, Trash Boat. Shut the fuck up. Weren’t you trying to pretend you were normal for the pretty lady? You should get in the car. I want to see if her blood is as red as that truck. I bet she’s a music loving slut just like your whore of a wife.

You leave Elisa out of this.

Those words said in his own voice brought a bitter taste in his mouth. He wanted to vomit again, but fortunately there was nothing left in his stomach. 

“Sir? Are you all right? I can take you to a hospital…” The girl said, frowning at him. She blinked cat-eyed lids at him. “You’re really not looking so good.”

“I’m not all right.” Patrick replied without realizing, “I have been through a very rough past couple of days and I would very much, um, appreciate it if you could drop me off at that hospital and not ask why I look like a wolverine mauled me.”

Woowww, so very smooth, Patricia.  
I’m getting tired of being insulted from not-me in my own head.

“Spunky. I like that. Get in. I’ll get you someplace where you won’t be judged, and you can get the help you need.”

…

The Adder could smell Xibalba’s infection reigning deep in Stump’s skin. It made her skin crawl, itch with the need to protect itself with scales. It made her sick to her stomach, the stench of blood and the saccharine scent of decay congealing with Stump’s natural scent.

It took everything in her not to just give him the truck and leave, but he very well can’t drive with a hook hand, can he? The Adder sighed deeply. Xibalba’s methods are barbaric at best. If she wins, she’ll try to convince some of the remaining muses and gods to replace their memories with something… Less traumatizing. Of course, she has to win the game first.

Not that it’s a game anymore. She sighed softly, turning on the radio. Nothing but static crackled back at her. What a shame. In the broad daylight, no one, not even the most daring of rebels, would dare to broadcast over the air. She wished they would. God knows a world without music is dull as all get out. She’d even prefer some of Courtney’s bitches’ bubblegum pop to this white noise. 

The Adder shut the radio back off. She glanced at Stump from the corner of her eye. Xibalba’s tendril terrified her—its dark whispers called to her, but the Adder tried her best to push them away with her own purpose. She clung to her mission—rescue Fall Out Boy, heal them, bless them with her own powers, and wait. It will get the job done, she told herself, every line is plotted and designed. No one is better than her. Not even Xibalba. Of course she may die, she reminded herself, but it’s just the price I pay. Destiny is calling me. This is my place.

..  
Andy Hurley, in the meantime, sat up. He’d passed out sometime during the night in the middle of the woods. Luckily, it seemed that no animals had fucked around with him as he’d slept. Sure, his head ached, and his throat was dry as all get out, but, he decided to be optimistic—already, he felt some basic control of his motor functions, which was much more than he’d had yesterday. As long as he could hear the steady drumbeat of his heart, he knew he was alive. He stood. His knees shook weakly for a moment—underfed, his head supplied, need water, food—and he felt like Bambi in the beginning of the film. He took a deep breath, rolling up the sleeves to his sweatshirt.

He’s all alone, and he’s probably wanted. What does he do?

Find a road, his head supplied helpfully. Seems like detoxing and a brisk autumn breeze worked wonders and bringing clarity to a drugged-up mind. If only he’d known this during Joe’s stoner days.

Joe. Pete. Patrick.

He took a deep breath as the steady drumbeat in his chest became more erratic. He needed to find them. They were strongest when they were together—that must be why those people had kept them separated.

Andy walked again.

And eventually, he came up to a road. He sightlessly stumbled down the road, knowing that where roads lead, there come upon towns. And where towns are, there are things he needs—food, shelter, water, other people.

The sun heated his feverish skin, and the grime and blood caked deep onto his skin seemed to penetrate into his very soul. The town wasn’t large, he discovered, but there was an overpass. Bridges, as he remembered of the hobos of his hometown, made good shelter from the elements when one was in desperate need.

Andy Hurley, whom had never expected that he would ever reach a point this low in his lifetime, was in desperate need. He made to sit, but he saw a homeless man—scruffy, older, in ragged clothing, much as was the stereotype he supposed—laying in apparent sleep. More importantly, an open can of beans was at the man’s side.

Andy’s stomach moaned with desperation.

He tried to tell himself to keep walking. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t need the can of beans—he was rich and famous, he could buy and entire store! Even if those funds were technically null right now, at the height of a corrupt revolution, there was that thought—he was in a shitty place, yeah, but he doesn’t need the beans as much as the man does.

Yet his stomach turned and flipped insistently. Plus, the homeless man looked rather well-fed—portly, as compared to the skinny old things he remembers from his youth. Maybe he could find food again pretty easily. Plus, the guy just left the beans out where anybody could take them…

Andy tried to convince himself once again to leave the beans keep walking.

Predictably, the growling of his empty stomach won out.

And so, that’s how Andy Hurley found himself trying to steal a can of beans from a hobo.

Correction: that is how Andy Hurley found himself failing to steal a can of beans from a hobo, and running for his life for the second time in maybe three days. The hobo yelled and swore behind him, stumbling on his own two feet as Andy fled. His youth seemed to win against the man’s better health, because soon the man stopped to catch his breath, and Andy kept running. Joke’s on him, he thought darkly to himself, the beans were as good as birdfood now—in their struggle over the can, it had been knocked into the dirt.

Andy sighed, walking along a path beside a park.

He paused, seeing a flicker of movement.

Colored bands. An occasional hiss.

He gasped and scrambled up the grassy incline. What does one do when a potentially dangerous snake is loose in a suburban environment? Leave it? Scream irrationally? Andy was inclined to the latter due to his frustrating encounter with the hobo, but he was ninety percent sure that would only frighten the snake and possibly result in the death of Andy Hurley.

Andy watched the snake continue on its merry way on the path.

He stared, mesmerized.  
They highfive. Patrick’s baby-like cheeks are lit up with the first legitimate grin they’d seen in ages. He is still neat, tidy, his glasses enlargening his baby blues, a light of hope in them.

A bowl of fruit, saccharine sweet, sickening. The smell of blood and sweat and tears. Patrick crying for help.

Fear. True, true fear.

Immobilized. Screaming his hardest. Refusing torture. Yet it pulls at his heart, at his very soul, at his root, as darkness reigns in him and tries to overtake him.  
Yes, urged a woman’s voice in Andy’s head, understand. There is danger. You are not safe.

The steady beat of Andy’s feet as he ran, ran.

“We can save it all.”

Patrick, waking. He looks much worse now. Beaten, defeated, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. His hand is gone—Andy remembers why. 

Pete, blundering through the forest, a backpack slung across this back. His eye are hard, searching, but he keeps glancing behind him, mournful, regretful.

Joe, screaming in agony. White sheets torn to shreds.

Joe, screaming agony. Then a sickening crunch. Sightless eyes stare into nothingness.

Death awaits, unexpected like an adder’s strike. You cannot dwell on that now. The woman’s voice again, and Andy didn’t know what she meant. Was Joe dead? Where were Pete and Patrick? Where was he to go?

Andy paused.

No, he knew where.

He ran.

…  
And Joe Trohman, in the meantime. The injury to his thigh proved more problematic than he had anticipated it would. It bled insistently with each step, and with each step he groaned in suppressed agony. 

It was excruciating, but there aren’t any hospitals in hell, and hell is pretty much where he’s found himself. At least, as close to hell as he’ll ever get, he’s pretty sure.

He hopes.

Joe kept walking. On the top of the hill in front of him, he saw clothes flying the wind like a flag, pinned to a line that rose and fell with the breeze. If he could just get up to the incline, he could get to the house. If he got to the house, hopefully, somebody would help his sorry ass. If not, he would just ask (or take) a first aid kit and get on his merry way.

This theory, he thought, worked much better when one had ready access to his or her words. Joe, tongue heavy with post-drug slurs and thirst, groggy with exhaustion, and in the most agonizing pain he’s ever been through in his entire life, did not have ready access to his words.

However, this is a fact that he did not realize.

Joe, when he finally made it up the gradual incline to the quaint country home, crept to the corner. He peered around. A woman, probably in her late forties, still doing the laundry. She had her hair in curlers, and Joe half-wondered what fucking era she grew up in because people didn’t really do that anymore as far as he knew. 

However, the oddly dressed woman in the fuzzy slippers was also his last hope.  
“Hey!” He called, his voice hoarse. Unbeknownst to Joe, his voice sounded more like a growl.

The woman froze, turning to him. Her eyes were wide with absolute shock. What a sight Joe made, if only he knew! His hair was a mess, springing in all directions, dirty, a leaf stuck in it. His eyes were wild, crazed, and pained, darting all over like an animal. His teeth, grit in pain due to the aforementioned wound to the thigh, looked more like a predator’s fangs as he reared to attack. And the blood! The blood gave him the look of a serial killer, adding the final touch to the signs that screamed to this poor, frightened woman, “RUN, RUN AWAY.”

The woman did the only thing she could think to do. She screamed.

“WAIT!” Joe yowled, frightening the woman more with his coarse, growling vocals. “WAIT, I NEED HELP! PLEASE!”

The woman ran and ran, and Joe only knew she was gone because her scream faded the further away she got. He sighed. He guessed he was on his own. He looked at the woman’s laundry, still flapping lazily in the wind, as if it would give him the answers. Fixated on the flowing shapes the breeze marked upon white sheets, the answer suddenly became clear to him. Didn’t people make their own tourniquets or something when they had to? Or could he just wrap the wound with makeshift bandage?

Either way, Joe picked a sheet from the line, ripped it into strips, and tied his wound up. He shoved a couple extra sheets into his pocket. Once this strip was done for, he’d replace it. For now, this would have to do.

Joe sighed, taking an extra rag to wipe at his grimy, sweaty face. He wondered which direction to go, when suddenly, an insistent hissing came to his attention.

Fearing the worst, Joe steeled himself and looked down.

At his feet, was an adder.

It took everything in our Mr. Trohman not to scream. Everything.

The adder slithered over his boots. It seemed to like him, because it turned around and slithered the other way, back over his boots.

Joe, not wanting to be snakefood, slowly took a step back once the snake was clear of one boot. Yet, as he stared at the snake, Joe couldn’t help but feel strangely comfortable.

What.

The snake kept making that same pattern. Back one way, curve, back the other way, and Joe felt fixated.

Pete grinned. “Joseph! Joe, my man, have I got the plan of the century…”

“Holy shit. We did it. We really fucking did it.” Pete breathed, voicing what they were all thinking.

“It’s ours.” Patrick added, smiling. “We can do this. We can save it all!” He bubbled, excited.

“We did it.” Joe had to say it himself, or it wouldn’t feel real. “We did it. It’s over…”

This is not so. It is not over. A woman’s voice whispered in his head. Joe shivered. It was too much like him.

Happy feelings, happy, joyous feelings, the illusion of a party masking a nightmare. Patrick screaming himself hoarse. And wine, powder, gore, all being shoved into Joe’s face, his mouth greedily taking it all--

Immobilized. Straitjackets. Children. The humiliation, the discrediting, the total disregard for his humanity—

You’ll never remember, sighed the woman, your head is far too blurry.

\--Fire. Pete’s panicked voice. Joe, Joe. 

When Joe finally blinked, the snake was gone.

“What just happened…” he mumbled to himself, digging a palm into his eye. He sighed. Whatever happened—he didn’t know, he’d zoned out, he guessed—now he knew where to go.

Vaguely.

Joe turned and walked back down the hill. There’s a road nearby, and where roads are, there are people. Something comforting whispered low in him, whispered the promise of being found, of help. Maybe he had become delusional—it wouldn’t be the first time—but, instincts told him that this was what he needed to do right now. 

…  
The Adder clicked her tongue with apparent satisfaction. She’d planted the seeds, and now to collect her crop. The boys would be dispersed evenly along this road very soon. She chuckled to herself. She couldn’t wait to get out of this tiny town.

“The sounds of this small town make my ears hurt,” She sighed aloud.

“I suppose it is pretty quiet,” Stump murmured. The Adder hid her disappointment. He’d been quiet and brooding the whole trip, and the Adder, after driving the whole day, was bored. There’s only so much to do when you’re not guiding mortals to the right paths—not the easiest job, she’ll tell you gladly.

“Would you sing for me?” The Adder finally asked. Maybe the music would wake something of the man’s former self.

“That’s illegal.” He simply stated.

“You can trust me. I promise.”

“How?” Patrick prompted, and the Adder simply laughed at him, keeping her eyes on the road.

“In less than ten minutes, the back of my truck shall be occupied by your three best friends in the world. If I’m right, you have to sing for me. If not, then, you haven’t lost anything except a bit of time. Fair?” She asked, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes.

There was a silence as Patrick seemed to war with himself over the wager, before he finally said, “Okay.”  
…  
And in the midst of all this, a girl crouched over a sketchpad. The motel room was dark. An adder swirled around her shoulders, hissing a suggestive song into the girl’s ears.

The girl’s eyes were white.

She drew images of darkness.

Of the dark god’s image, of blood and suffering. Of blood on white clothes.

Of death itself, and its inevitability. 

A silhouette of Him at his piano, playing the chords of all harmony and grace, to soothe the discord of the world. Light yellows and pastels failed to capture the essence of His light.

The girl fainted, spent.

The adder blessed her. For if she failed, at least this girl would have a record of what may happen should no one act to stop the death of rock and roll.

…

Pete was loathe to admit it, but he was very lost. 

Noah had told him the town was about two miles’ walk down the road.

He’d gotten there, all right, but his first attempt to get help from a local had ended disastrously. He’d tried to talk to a woman and her child, but something about him had frightened them off. He blamed the tendril of Xibalba—its darkness seemed to make people uneasy—at Roadhouse, some of them hadn’t let him get too close, particularly Ezekial and Lucinda, whom had probably not yet been touched by Xibalba’s darkness. Roadhouse felt like pure light, and Pete had completely forgetten about Xibalba in the time he was there, until it had come time to tell his story.

Sadly, some people are more sensitive to the darkness, so he must have frightened the woman child off. He understood that they were scared—he had ran after them like a maniac—but has the pepper spray been necessary?

His eyes were still wandering. He’d kept walking blindly, and eventually he’d ended back up on a road.

His backpack thumped relentlessly on his back, as if mocking him. As if saying, you should have stayed safe at the Roadhouse. He almost flipped it off.

He just kept walking in the meanwhile.

“HEEEEY!!!”

Pete froze. He knew that voice.

“PEEEEETEEEE!!!!”

His eyes started to water for a reason completely unrelated to pepperspray. He didn’t want to turn around. It was a dream. The guys weren’t here. He’d wake up back in the field or at the Roadhouse again. This wasn’t r—

“Pete Wentz!!! Turn the FUCK around!”

Pete whipped around. There was a bright ass blood orange truck on the side of the road. Patrick was leaning out the window, grinning and waving at him. A woman was at the steering wheel—who would have thought that someone would pick up guys as ragged as them? And most importantly, Joe and Andy were standing in the bed of the truck, waving their arms at him.

“HEEEY!!!” They called, and Pete hurried to their side. He didn’t move, just stared. He didn’t want to touch them and find it was all fake, it was a lie. He didn’t want to be let down. 

“Get in, moron!” Joe grabbed his wrist and none-too-gracefully, Pete fell ass over heels into the bed of the truck.

Joe slapped the side of the truck, and the woman revved the engine. 

Pete sat up, and after all the experiences he’d had, after all the experiences the guys had probably had, he laughed. It was a liberating laugh—freeing. Nothing was even funny. He was just so glad to have his friends back, to know he’s not alone. To know that even as the world failed, Fall Out Boy remained. And sure enough, as if they understood, Joe and Andy joined in, laughing heartily, falling over each other.

As their driver drove on into the night, Pete, Joe, and Andy exchanged stories. Pete told them everything he could remember—from their parting, to Roadhouse 27. Joe told a story about a frightened woman and some sheets. Andy looked genuinely guilty as he mumbled something about trying to steal a can of beans. Pete couldn’t remember the last time he smiled so hard. He shared his bounty with his friends—water, chips, bananas. Jo had raided Roadhouse’s pantries for them, as if she’d known Pete would find them. They gluttoned themselves on water and gorged on the snacks, and even Patrick leaned out the window occasionally to shout to them about some things, or to ask for a water. For the first time in a long time, Pete felt his band in unity, as a solid group and not four men trying to fit together after years apart.

He chuckled. Joe and Andy had fallen asleep. Pete looked at the woman and Patrick in the cab. They seemed to be in deep discussion. Not wanting to interrupt, Pete settled in with Joe and Andy and closed his eyes. Even if he didn’t get to rest long, he wanted this moment of reprieve, lulled to sleep in a familiar setting—in between two guys he’d lay down his life for.

He’d dance to the beat of his own heart if he could.

…

“So. You owe me a song.” The adder hummed, smirking at Patrick cockily. Patrick snorted.

“Yeah, okay. But my voice is shot all to hell.” He warned, taking another swig of the water bottle Pete had leaned over the top of the truck to hand to him. Same old Pete, always taking risks. He shook his head, fondness making him smile, his gladness to be back with his friends softening the razor sharpness of his Other’s teeth. 

“That’s okay.” The Adder chuckled. “Just sing whatever comes to mind.”

Patrick chuckled. “Okay, I will.” He took a deep breath. He thought about it. His anger wanted to manifest into something from their earlier days, when Pete’s words radiated with anger and jaded words, and his melodies were erratic and pulsing as a fever dream. He thought darkly to his Other, Take your taste back, peel back your skin, and try to forget how it feels inside. 

There was a dark chuckle, and he got in reply, You should try saying no to the music once in a while

Patrick grit his teeth, feeling the anger in him growing at all the things that had happened to the world, to his band. He felt it bubble inside him, and then he started to growl,  
“This story's getting old  
The home wrecker with the heart of gold  
Keep you locked up in the trunk of my mind  
Keep, k-keep talking  
Keep this alive  
This story's getting old  
The home wrecker with the heart of gold  
Keep you locked up in the trunk of my mind now-ow, ow-ow, ow-ow!”

She seemed delighted, so he kept singing, until suddenly, the truck stopped.

“Patrick,” she said, then turned to him. “Your voice. You heart. They’re the worst kinds of weapons in this war. Do you understand? Nothing, even Xibalba can take that away.”

“How do you know about Xi—“

“Never mind that. This hospital should be safe. I had friends here. Healers. Get inside, get better, and then fight.”

And then, something unexpected happened. Patrick watched as her eyes flashed black.

…

The Adder fought so hard.

As he sang, she’d tried so hard, so very hard to channel her magic into him to kill the beast inside him. 

She wanted that ugly monstrosity gone, so that Stump’s true light could show. But Xibalba’s magic had taken root deep—Stump would have to die before the evil left. 

And then, her grip tightened on the steering wheel. She could feel it. She could feel him, lurking, just on the edge of her consciousness. 

He blurred her vision, he made darkness blot out her thoughts. She fought him. With every fiber of her being, she fought.

She needed to protect the world, not destroy it.

Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy, he mocked in her head. He laughed darkly. Oh, Adder. You’ve gotten so weak. Just one mistake is all it will take for me to crush your soul…

And did you hear the news…? I could dissect you and gut you on this stage, you know. Our playground will look so pretty covered in your blood.

The Adder struggled against him. Xibalba’s will was too strong. She was no match for his darkness---her light simply didn’t shine bright enough.

Before she turned completely, she was aware of herself hurriedly babbling things to Patrick, to warn him, anything.

As dark suggestion whispered through the radio, to the activation in Patrick’s brain, the Adder did the only thing that she could.

She screamed.

“RUN, RUN!!!”

The last thing she was aware of was Patrick staring dumbly at her, as if he hadn’t understood. And then, as her hand swatted the radio against her will, his face screwed into that of an animal, and he growled. 

Pete, Joe, and Andy, awakened by the commotion, peered into the cabin. Pete knocked on the cab’s back window. He called out.

The Adder watched as Patrick Stump lurched predatorily at his bandmates, growling like the beast, like a being corrupted by darkness like her, now. As they disappeared into Linda Vista Hospital, The Adder slipped under. She felt heavy, too heavy, unable to keep her head above water…

…  
HOURS EARLIER.

“Ah—ah—please!” She whined, her back arched, every inch of her exposed. Clayton chuckled darkly, kissing her breasts. His fingers swirled around her core so cruelly. His thrust was even, and he remained so cool, while she was a hot mess.

He kissed her, hot kisses that spread fire to her. 

Clayton, while perhaps she did not believe he loved her, to his credit loved her more than he could fathom. He respected her strength of will and heart, admired her beauty. He kissed her shoulder, wishing he could wash away the tension of her body and let her forget her restless soul. He supposed having him present as her anchor helped. When he was in control, just like this, she could perhaps quiet her thoughts, if only for a little while. When he’d found her today, hunched over her sketchbook, eyes wide with terror, shaken to the core, he’d held her and rocked her until she’d calmed. And she’d murmured their word, the word that told him that she needed him for that, too.

“Clay—fuck, I need—ah…” she moaned, her face turned away from him. He gently nudged her chin, urging her to look at him. Her gaze, clouded with pleasure, shined with so much trust that it hurt his heart. 

“Beg.” He murmured, biting his mark into the junction of her neck and shoulder. She cried out, a delicious sound that he could make music out of if she let him.

“Please—please—I need it—“ 

And because he kept his promises, and because he loved her and everything about her, he gave her everything she asked for. Always. He understood—ever since they’d taken her back from them, she needed this from him. Perhaps his touches were her way of coping. Perhaps his control gave her freedom. Perhaps he was something familiar, and thus, some security to the unsure world they now lived in. Perhaps she took comfort in the fact that she could now choose whose hands she placed her body and soul. He didn’t know. He would never pretend to know the inner workings of his lover’s mind, and he preferred it that way, to be honest.

That, after all, was how he liked her. Unpredictable, capricious, fiery passionate… All wound up. And him? 

He gave her the chance to let go.

As they settled back down, Clayton soothed her with quiet song and adoring butterfly kisses. She hummed appreciatively before promptly nodding off. He chuckled and kissed her nose. He cuddled with her beneath now-wrinkled white sheets, holding her tight in his arms. He silently hoped for some peace—God knows that after so long, they need it.

Peace, however, didn’t come. As she awoke, Josephine screamed in utter terror. She clawed at invisible beasts, at unseen horrors, at dreams now untouchable. She shivered and shook. She gathered her blankets around her, scrubbing her tearstricken face.

“Dollface, what’s wrong?” murmured her bedmate. Clayton wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his cheek into her shoulder.   
“Did you dream about it again?” He asked softly, his eyes falling on a sketchpad on the nightstand.

“Clayton,” Jo turned around and instinctually, he curved his body protectively around her much smaller frame. “Clayton,” she began again, her voice slowly returning, “I, I dreamt something much worse. I… I don’t know… I just… I need the car.”

 

“Why do you need the car, mm?” He asked, slowly moving them from side to side and petting her head. He listened attentively as her breathing slowly returned to normal.

“I need to go.”

“Go where, Jo? You need to talk to me,” he admonished lightly, and she took a shaky breath against his chest.

“I want to go to Linda Vista.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs Referenced:  
> My Heart Is the Worst Kind Of Weapon  
> Mr. Brightside  
> Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes  
> Champagne for My Real Friends  
> Snitches and Talkers Get Stitches and Walkers


	5. PSA!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hit me up at inthejunegloom on tumblr for any comments, questions, or concerns! this chapter will be deleted in favor of the real chapter 5 once it is posted. thank you for your patience! -- breezyArtii2an

This fic is not dead! 

I am currently reworking some kinks here and there and, long story short, some shit went down with the friend whose ocs I was borrowing for this fic. 

Basically, on the surface it may appear this fic is on hiatus or discontinued but I promise you I am diligently working on it! 

In the meantime, I highly recommend you read any side stories from It's Warmer In The Basement until the next update of NWTHYSAT.


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